Scions, page 1
Praise for Scions
"A semi-historical with sassy demigods, and a secret world on the brink of war, Scions has everything teen readers could want."
Aprilynne Pike, #1 NYT bestselling author of the Wings series
"This page-turner is Josephine Angelini's best yet!"
Beth Revis, NYT bestselling author of Across the Universe
"Josephine Angelini’s series gives the Trojan War a captivating makeover for the modern age.”
Katharine McGee, NYT bestselling author of American Royals
"Electrifying, action-packed story-telling with sworn enemies to lovers, Greek Gods, and an ending that’s going to have you reaching for the next book."
Aileen Erin, USA Today bestselling author of the Alpha Girl series
Copyright © 2022 by Josephine Angelini
ISBN: 979-8-9855810-0-3
Published by Sungrazer Publishing
Cover design by Jenny Zemanek
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from Sungrazer Publishing.
For my Pony
Contents
The Four Houses
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Timeless
Also by Josephine Angelini
The Four Houses
House of Atreus
Upper East Side and Central Park
* * *
Elara Atreus - Head of House
* * *
Polyduces (Duce) Atreus
* * *
Daphne Atreus - Heir to House
* * *
House of Thebes
Washington Square, The Village and Alphabet City
* * *
Paris Delos - Head of House
* * *
Jordana Lycian
* * *
Tantalus Delos - Heir to House
* * *
Castor Delos
* * *
Pallas Delos
* * *
Ajax Delos
* * *
Antigone Lycian
* * *
Pandora Delos
* * *
House of Athens
Downtown, the Waterfront and Tribeca
* * *
Bellerophon Attica - Head of House
* * *
Ladon Attica
* * *
Daedelus Attica - Heir to House
* * *
Nilus Attica
* * *
Lelix Attica
* * *
House of Rome
Upper East and Harlem
* * *
Melia Tiber - Head of House
* * *
Leda Tiber - Heir to House
* * *
Adonis Tiber
Chapter 1
I’ve always hated the first day of school. I don’t know for certain that it would be easier if we didn’t move so much, but I have this feeling that if I could stay put in one school for long enough maybe the other kids would get used to the way I look. Maybe they’d even start to accept me.
But probably not. I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore. I’m a senior this year. All I have to do is survive until graduation. One day at a time, right? I know that’s a mantra from Alcoholics Anonymous, but as far as odious afflictions go, it’s been my experience that high school should have a twelve-step recovery program of its own. There’d probably be fewer alcoholics if it did.
Manhattan is a big change from Massachusetts. I don’t exactly blend in here, but at least I’m not as conspicuous as I was in Wellesley, or Duxbury before that, or any of the scores of places we’ve lived over the years. Since we moved here two weeks ago, I’ve been taking walks around the city while wearing different faces—faces that won’t cause any problems. I’ve been able to wander, explore, and blend in. Couldn’t do that before. Strangers get noticed in small towns, but in big cities everyone’s a stranger. Or just plain strange. There’re a lot of strange people in New York. I’ve discovered I’m fond of strange.
I’ve loved it here, even though New York City is probably the most dangerous place for me to be. I feel the tang of inspiration everywhere I go. Even the dirtiest wall can become the birthplace of a truly original thought. Like my newest discovery, which I’ve stumbled upon: a graffiti artist who’s been leaving tags—which is a mural with the artist’s name in it—on the side of some seriously expensive real estate. The tags are unique. More like works of guerrilla art than vandalism. They pull at me, even though I haven’t been able to make out the name of the artist yet. Graffiti font can be hard to decipher.
I’m not the type to get gushy over art. I’ve never had an eye for paintings or an ear for music or anything like that, but these tags are different. I’ve been sneaking out to look for them. I’m invested. It feels good to look forward to something. It’s been a while since I gave a shit about anything.
I change my face when I go tag hunting so I can have some privacy. Time away from being me, but the honeymoon is officially over. I can’t wear a different face to my first day of school, although simply looking like someone else would solve most of my problems. I can’t for two reasons. First, because my human father has no idea what I am, and it would be quite a shock to him to find some unfamiliar face hovering over my name in the yearbook. Second, and more importantly, I must wear my face for the majority of every day or Aphrodite will remove love itself from the world. But I'll explain that later.
Today, and every day from now on, I have to wear my true face to school. The Face.
I see the other kids streaming into the exclusive private school across the street from Central Park and swallow, my hand still on the door handle. I’m stuck here for a moment, reluctant to open the car door, and wishing like crazy that this time it’ll be different. Wishing I’ll make even one friend this time.
My driver looks at me in the rearview mirror, worried, and I push open the door of the black town car before he gets into trouble with my father for my tardiness. I look down at my button-down oxford shirt, green and blue kilt, white tights, and burgundy leather penny loafers as I hurry across the street and into the school. I worry that my oxford isn’t loose enough and that my kilt isn’t long enough to hide my figure. I hunch my shoulders and scowl.
Keep your face down, I coach myself. Don’t smile.
As I start weaving my way through the crowded halls, I can feel eyes landing all over me; eyes lingering, peering closer, and searching for some kind of imperfection.
I think most of the time people stare because they can’t believe it. They stare because they want to be sure that I am as flawless as their first glance hinted, and once they confirm that, they can let it go for the most part.
It’s only the people who are missing something in themselves, the people who are the most shallow, who can’t let it go. They come after me, coveting me like a thing. And there’s no lack of shallow kids in the kinds of schools my dad sends me to. I’ve begged to go to public, but he’d never allow it. What would all his high-powered partners think about me mingling with the serfs of the middle class? They’d probably never develop another luxury building with him again.
I try to concentrate on the map I got in my orientation packet. I hear the conversations of the other students around me die down as I pass, and the whispers that rise up like a hissing tide behind my back. Just ignore them.
I read the numbers on the lockers to my right, counting my way down the row, and realize that my locker is buried behind a cluster of large, noisy boys. Jocks for sure, each of them flooded with testosterone and the strange goat-like urge to butt their heads into things. I can feel static tingling in my fingertips, and I push down the fight-or-flight response. The last thing I need to do is accidentally kill someone in the hallway on my first day of school.
But I stop and almost turn around to flee when the jocks see me and break apart.
“Is this yours?” asks a tall boy with sandy-colored hair. He steps back and gestures to my locker.
I nod and deepen my scowl, my head bent. I dart between the tall sandy-haired boy and a shorter, thicker boy with dark hair. Another boy joins them, closing me in.
“You’re new here,” says the sandy-haired boy confidently. I can already tell he’s the alpha, staking his claim. There’s one of him in every school. “What’s your name?”
“Daphne,” I say, fumbling with the combination lock. My hands are shaking.
“I’m Flynn,” he replies, his voice dropping. He’s moving closer to me, but I doubt he’s aware of that. I doubt any of them are aware of the fact that they’ve surrounded me. Cutting off my exit. Like a pack of wild dogs.
Lightning thrills under my skin, responding to the male threat. I try to calm down. I remind myself that they can’t help it. They want to see my face—they need to see it—so they’re coming closer. I wonder if I should try something different this time. Maybe if I let them see me they’ll get what they want and give me some space. I tuck my hair behind my ear with my pinky, straighten up to my full height of five feet ten inches tall, and look Flynn full in the face.
His gray eyes go hazy and he sways closer to me, reaching, wanting, his self-restraint spiraling to nothing. Bad idea. I should have kept my head down.
“Flynn!”
His shoulders tense and he turns. Behind him I see a pretty brunette glaring at us. A well-dressed and expensively accessorized clique of It Girls surrounds her, each of them wearing looks of varying shades of jealousy and outrage. Except for one girl in the back, African American with a face full of freckles, who seems amused. She wears her natural hair cut in steep layers around her head with a face-framing fringe of curly bangs. She hasn’t been brainwashed by the lame restrictions of high-school hierarchy. Hope flickers inside me.
“Who’s this?” Kayla asks Flynn. Like I’m not even here. She takes his hand possessively.
“I’m Daphne,” I reply. I don’t bother trying to smile at Kayla. We aren’t going to be friends. I hope she doesn’t try to do the whole “hostess of the school” thing—showing me around, pretending to be helpful and welcoming until she finds a good place to stick her knife.
Kayla looks me up and down and turns away without saying a word. Good. She’s not even going to pretend to be civil. Her honesty is refreshing. The bell rings and the It Girls haul the rest of the boys away from me like they’re saving them from the plague.
I know that by the end of the day Kayla and her prep school mafia will have spread some vicious rumor about me trying to have sex with their boyfriends against the lockers or something equally absurd, and the whole school will turn against me. This must be some sort of record. Usually, I make it through an entire week before the lies start about me sleeping with teachers, somebody’s father, or half the football team. It’s like I’m stuck in an ’80s movie where the cheerleaders are all bitches. It’s 1993. Catch up.
One more year of this bullshit and I’m free. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t even have the energy to care at this point, but my throat closes off with tears anyway. I pull myself together. I’ve cried about this enough times and I refuse to do it again. I look down at my map to find my homeroom.
It’s a small school. I think there are only about seventy or eighty kids in my grade, but even so I don’t see any of the jocks or the It Girls in my first three classes. I’m in the Advanced Placement track with all the geeks.
I’m comfortable around geeks, especially the math and science kind. The girls are too busy thinking deep thoughts to care how I look and the boys are too freaked out by anything female to even acknowledge me. I would try to be friends with any of them, but I know that as soon as they find out my GPA crushes theirs they’ll all hate me too. Jocks and It Girls have nothing on geeks when it comes to competitiveness.
I’m early to fourth period. AP Social Studies. I have my book out on my desk, pretending to read, while the rest of the students take their seats. I feel someone standing over me. It’s the It Girl with the freckles. She shifts from foot to foot. It feels like she wants to say something to me.
“Hi,” I say guardedly. There’s something in her eyes. Something almost like caring.
She opens her mouth but suddenly stops herself. She walks past me and takes her seat, a worried frown on her face. Class begins. The lecture is short and the round table discussion is long, more like a debate, really. There are twelve kids in this class, and they throw themselves into the topic with relish. I stay out of it and just listen. I learn that Freckles’ name is Harlow. I can’t help but like her.
I see Harlow again at lunch and I smile at her. She almost smiles back, but it gets stuck halfway across her lips. Her eyes unfocus with conflicting thoughts and her almost-smile slinks back down into a fretful frown.
I sit alone. Several boys ask if they can eat lunch with me and I tell them no. I don’t say it nicely, either.
At my last school I tried to date once. Sweet kid. He asked me to junior prom and for some idiotic reason I said yes. By the end of the day he’d already been in three fights and his nose was broken. I went to the nurse’s office while they waited for the ambulance to come take him to the hospital and told him to forget it. It totally broke his heart but better that than his neck. As long as I say no to everyone no one fights over me. Enough wars have been started over me.
Well, not me, not really. Just my face. My curse.
Lunch ends and I glance at my syllabus. Phys Ed. Oh joy. I trudge to the girls’ locker room, wondering if the people who decided on the class order are purposely trying to make the students barf. Who schedules Phys Ed right after lunch? Not that gym class is any kind of workout for me. In fact, it’s insufferable. I’m always so paranoid that I’ll move a little too quickly or lift something that’s a little too heavy for a girl my age, and I’ll be found out.
Rule number one for my kind: don’t EVER let humans discover that demigods exist.
As I pull open the door to the girls’ locker room, I hear a whispered “It’s her,” and my heart falls. I underestimated Kayla. I didn’t think she’d resort to a physical attack, not yet anyway. I should have suspected this from the way she didn’t even try the “hostess of the school” passive/aggressive route. This girl isn’t passive about anything. She’s just aggressive. My uncle Deuce is going to strangle me for letting a bunch of humans get the drop on me.
Kayla and the It Girls don’t know this, but I can see them all moving in on me. They’re so slow it’s pathetic. Before they can grab me I already know what my choice has to be. I have to let them get me or they’ll see how fast I can move and they’ll know that there’s something seriously strange about me. And Kayla is the type to dig. She won’t let it go until she finds out what I am.
And then I’ll have to kill her.
They grab me and pull me back into the showers. I fight the instinct to electrocute them. It isn’t easy. I go sort of limp in their arms, knowing that if I don’t struggle I won’t miscalculate my strength and accidentally break anyone’s arm.
There’s a chair set up, waiting. Kayla’s put some thought into this. They throw me down into the chair and she stands in front of me. Smug. There’s a glint in her eye that tells me she enjoys this a bit too much. I’ve seen the look before. That twisted kid in my sixth-grade class had the same look in his eyes when he stuffed a firecracker into a toad’s mouth and watched it explode. He was one of those skinny, wimpy-looking bullies—the kind who gets by not on size but on sheer cruelty. Kayla’s like him, I realize. She’s not the prettiest (that would be Harlow) she’s just willing to do things that the other girls aren’t.
She has a pair of scissors in her hand. I’m worried now. I’m not afraid of pain, but what if she tries to cut me, and realizes that no matter how hard she tries she can’t even penetrate my skin?
“Please stop,” I say, my lower lip trembling. It’s not an act. I don’t want to have to kill. Not again.
“I haven’t even started yet,” Kayla says. “Harlow,” she calls over her shoulder.
